The Bridge Across the World
by maximsk
Summary: In the wake of the Oblivion Crisis, Martin Septim and the Hero of Kvatch were both raised to immortal existence. But neither of them ever expected to see the other again. It would take defying the laws of the universe to bring them together. And that's the easy part—because even then, would they still remember who they used to be?


**This story is based on the continuity of countess z's story Dawn's Beauty, as well as my own Currents of Time series. If you haven't read those, this should still be entirely readable. Either way—enjoy.**

The world was ending.

The air was thick with smoke and sulfur, and rang with the distant noise of a desperate battle. Every second, the ground shook, a steady rhythm of booming steps, each closer than the last.

Martin looked up, and the ceiling of the temple caved in. Stone and dust showered down over him, bounced off the Redguard's shield.

The giant, monstrous form of Mehrunes Dagon stood over them, framed against the fiery red sky. The Oblivion Crisis had finally reached its endgame. The future of Tamriel was reduced to what would happen in this room in the seconds to come.

In Martin's hand was the Amulet of Kings, the artifact of the Septim lineage, the one only he could activate. And before him was the temple's altar. Now was his time.

He turned to the Redguard woman beside him. Mona. The one who had stood by him from the beginning. He looked upon her, and said, "Stand back. I would tell you not to watch what is about to transpire, but…"

There was grief in Mona's eyes. And rightfully so. But there was nothing that Martin could do to allay it. This was his fate, and it had been all along. No other choices remained to them.

At any instant, Mehrunes would strike down upon them, and this all would end. He could not be allowed to continue.

"But you know I won't listen," the Redguard's voice said, but Martin's mind had already moved elsewhere. Now was his time. He would never see the world in this manner again.

It was easy to accept, he found. Perhaps, he had been slowly coming to accept it ever since the crisis began. Now, with the fate of all creation resting upon his own, it seemed like the way the world had been meant.

Mona asked him one last question, and Martin gave one final answer.

Then he turned away, and with all his might, smashed the Amulet of Kings down upon the altar's stone.

Light filled him. A burning, radiant light, far greater than any he had ever seen or known. Entire worlds of knowledge emerged into his awareness all at once, as though remembering them after a brief lifetime of forgetfulness. His body restrained him no longer.

He was Akatosh, the dragon god of Time. His form was a brilliant, blazing entity of unrestrained Aetherial might. Mehrunes Dagon and his forces of Oblivion were no match.

The battle was swift, decisive and merciless. Akatosh remained long enough to see his work completed, and then the power of the Amulet of Kings was finally depleted. His form was abandoned as an effigy of stone. Aetherius awaited his return.

And so Martin Septim, last heir to the Septim Dynasty, died.

And so Brother Martin died.

From that moment onward, his existence was beyond the reach of all. Martin had ascended to Aetherius, and become one with Akatosh. He was himself, and yet he was not. Akatosh was him, and yet he was not.

Aetherius was an experience like none other. Where it ended, and his godhood began, was unanswerable. It was a seamless mist of light and shadows, coiling through the atlas of the Aurbis, ensconcing the innumerable planes of reality with its embrace. Time was only a distant, tenuous idea. He simply was.

The core axis continued to turn, and he watched from afar. Mortals were born, lived and died, as they always did. His existence was an eternal truth, independent of all other events. He was Akatosh, and his domain was in Aetherius.

And yet Martin continued to watch with careful attention. There was that one mortal being he had left behind. Of all the fleeting waves of unique details that mortal life comprised, hers was the one that had mattered most to his own. Mona. The one who had shown him what made the world worth saving. The one who had bidden him the very last farewell. From afar, through the spiraling cascade of world-magic that bound all things together, Martin watched what happened in the wake of his own death.

Mona was lost without him. She was adrift in her small world, and soon she found herself in a situation beyond all others. Martin could only watch. He watched, as Mona fell into the clutches of the great denizen of Oblivion they called the Madgod. There was no escape. Like himself, Mona ended up becoming one with the being she served. Her individuality, her soul-spark, was lost in the shroud of madness. Lost.

There was nothing to be done. Martin could only continue to watch. For all of the greatness he had joined, it was a force of creation, not of change. Akatosh continued his reign from afar, and the core axis continued to turn.

Mortals were born, lived and died, as they always did. The political binding of mortal alliance known as the Empire began to wither and crumble without the Septims to lead it. New, dark shadows rose in the south. The Red Tower flared and shattered, and brought its own homeland to ruin. One by one, the distant pillars and eaves of Martin's old world began to fall.

As always, there was nothing to be done. And Akatosh sensed within himself a growing urge that he could not ignore. It was a will that did not belong in the mind of an Aedra, yet here it was. The one called Martin was of his own divine essence now. Yet there remained a growing, prickling feeling—an urge—to _do something_. To enact some sort of change in the world, to defy everything that had come before.

This was impossible. Akatosh knew his nature too well. Yet he could not hope to simply educate himself otherwise. The immortal facet of Martin knew already the walls that held Aetherius apart from the world within. He knew there was no moment waiting to be seized, no instant whose fate he could change. The influence of Aedra in Mundus was a steady, overarching constant. It was not subject to the whims of those who wielded it.

Yet here remained these growing sensations of whim. They vexed him, but they did nothing. He found himself inconsolable.

Time continued to pass. And in the year 201 of the Fourth Era, Akatosh witnessed the return of his son to the world. There was no cause for him to intervene, he knew. Despite his inner facet screaming at him to finally take action—when, if not against his own errant hand in creation, would he do so?—the path of fate was already laid out. The weave of reality had already produced a mortal champion to carry the course of nature.

And so Alduin was defeated by the Last Dragonborn. Life proceeded as before.

But then something happened that Akatosh did not predict. Something that did not fit into the paths of fate, that broke all connections to have come before. It was on the 15th of Rain's Hand, in year 202 of the Fourth Era. The Last Dragonborn suddenly came into possession of the power to reshape the world to his will. And he immediately used this power to obliterate all but five planes of Oblivion. Molag Bal, Hermaeus Mora, even Mehrunes Dagon, whom Akatosh had only managed to fend off from Mundus—they and many other Daedra were all erased permanently from existence in a span of seconds. The rest were simply reshaped to suit the Dragonborn's moral standards.

Akatosh should have been indifferent to this, or else appalled by the sheer scale of destruction. No being, mortal or immortal, had ever singlehandedly wrought such desolation upon the Aurbis. But that one part of himself, that one dissenting voice, was positively thrilled. While the effect on Oblivion had been impossibly brutal, the effect on Mundus was purely positive. The Daedric Princes who could be reformed into forces of well-being had been so reformed, and the rest had all been purged from existence.

This was a mortal who had succeeded where the gods had failed. How was it that Akatosh himself had not managed such a feat? He could not answer that line of questioning. Miracles paled in comparison.

Still, in the wake of this cataclysmic event, Akatosh observed that the Aurbis had become unstable. Events proceeded now according to paths that he could not understand, let alone predict. The most he could surmise was that Mundus had been unwittingly put in subtle but potentially massive danger. In removing so many planes of Oblivion, the Dragonborn had reduced the veil in between Aetherius and Mundus. The magic that gave Mundus its life now shone through with dangerous brightness.

He knew not what to do. Even to do nothing seemed insufficient to satisfy his nature as an Aedra. This disquieted him deeply. Yet Time passed, and his existence continued.

Then, at a point, time slowed down. A venturing hand reached out to him in the mists. A Daedric hand. Its image was unmistakable.

He was being contacted by a Daedra. This was impossible. The shroud of Oblivion was of a different nature than Aetherius. Nothing connected them. They were as alike as earth and sky.

All of those thoughts occurred to him in an instant. In the following instant, he recognized whom the hand belonged to. And while his understanding of the impossibility did not change, a new feeling entered him. A new, wholly unexpected feeling.

He had been foolish not to realize this already. Amid the chaos of the annihilation in Oblivion, he had not realized what the few spared planes had signified. They were simply beyond his insights.

That was what Akatosh thought about the matter, when he recognized what was happening. Martin, for his part, felt his heart stop.

It was an illusion. A simulacrum, a charade, a contrivance. Yet the meaning of the images was truer than anything he had seen in the past two hundred and two years. In the illusion, the Imperial man in the blue robe sat upon a cold, snowy mountainside, overlooking a vast swathe of forest underneath a starry twilight sky. And beside him sat a Redguard woman in a gray dress, reclined luxuriously on the icy slope, looking into his eyes.

"Hello, Akatosh," Mona said.

"Hello, Jyggalag," Martin said.

Seconds went by. Time continued on its unending cycle. But now, he found, it was no longer welcome. This moment had to last.

It was the first one in all this time to have mattered to him.

Mona said, "I never thought I would see you again."

"Nor I you," Martin murmured. It was unlike an Aedra to feel this. It was unlike him to feel awe.

He asked, "How did this happen?"

"When the Dragonborn executed his purge of Oblivion, he elected not to destroy me, but to cleanse me of my curse of madness. I, Mona, joined with the Daedric Prince Sheogorath long ago, and became an aspect of him. Now I'm an aspect of something much better."

Martin shook his head. "I didn't mean that. How have you managed to come and speak to me in this way? You are of Oblivion, and I of Aetherius. There is an impassable wall between us. It was always clear to me, by the light of the Aurbis, that we would never again know one another."

Mona stared at him silently, appraisingly, for a long moment. Then her face slowly lit up with a beautiful smile.

"Why are you smiling now?"

"I didn't know you were asking about that," she said, her expression not wavering. "I'm the Daedric Prince of Order now. Cause and effect are my sphere. Do you realize how few people in the world can evade my powers of prediction?"

"And this is good?" Martin raised his eyebrows inquisitively at her. That itself had been an unexpected answer. But he quickly realized what it meant, and before he knew it, he was smiling himself. "Of course it's good. It means someone in the world can still surprise you."

Mona nodded cheerfully. "Well, you know me."

Did he? That was a worthy question. This conversation did not change that Martin viewed the world now as the god of Time. But he did not say that thought aloud. Instead, he asked, "How few people in the world _can_ evade that power?"

"Two, so far. You, and the Dragonborn." Mona paused. "Well. Iseus. I can't call him the Dragonborn, even if that's how he's known. He has the powers of one, but the prophesied Dragonborn is actually his brother."

"His brother didn't defeat Alduin," Martin said flatly. This, he knew to be a truth. Perhaps Mona had seen something that he had not.

But she simply held out her arms in empty-handed surprise. "I know! The prophecy was subverted, I suppose." Then she relaxed again, and fixed him with another appraising look. "You're, ah… you're not sour about him slaying your son, are you?"

That took no effort to answer. "No, he deserved it. That's the last time I try to put my progeny in Mundus."

"Well, strictly speaking, their final battle was in Sovngarde, so he ended up in Aetherius again."

Martin scowled. "That's even worse."

"Mmm."

"And you didn't answer my question, did you? How are we talking to one another now?"

"Huh. I suppose not. Got a little distracted there, sorry." Mona gave him a sheepish smile, before sitting back on the slope and looking upward. "If you want an answer, you don't have to ask me. Look around you. Look at this fragment of reality we've found ourselves in. Observe its handiwork."

Martin briefly looked around. Then he stepped back from himself, and the Aedra known as Akatosh viewed the fragment as it had come to him. It was akin to a piece of Mundus, not Oblivion. It bridged the veil with a delicate, precarious balance, willfully held in place with surprising strength. This fragment would not leave them for as long as that strength persisted.

Then Martin looked over at Mona with a wry smirk. "So not only did Iseus rescue you, he's playing matchmaker for us?"

"And now I'm talking to you, despite the fact that you turned into a dragon god and _died._ "

"And now I'm talking to you," Martin replied, "despite the fact that you turned into a Daedric Prince and went irretrievably mad."

Another moment passed in silence.

"Oh, gods, I'm going to cry," Mona said, and then suddenly took him in a hug.

It was a contrivance. It was a deliberate fiction, designed to give the appearance of things that no longer were. But Akatosh was—Martin was being embraced by the one he loved. Mona's body was just as he remembered it. It was so warm, so delicate, yet brimming with fiery strength. He could only return the embrace in kind.

This moment went on, and on. Time passed, and Martin allowed it. Mona shuddered against him, sniffing a few times, holding him tightly in her arms. And before long, Martin realized that there were tears running down his own face. He allowed those as well.

The contrivance was no matter to him. Nothing had ever touched him this way. Nothing.

Eventually, Martin spoke again. His words came much more slowly to him now. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you in the first place."

"Mmm." Mona pulled away just enough to look up at him. Their embrace continued. "… Do you remember the last thing we said to each other?"

It had been a ritual of sorts, between the two of them. Some odd element of Martin's mind—perhaps the ties to prophecy, perhaps something else—had resulted in him seeing the world in a different, expanded way. Names had flavors, objects had feelings, and times had shapes. And once Mona had learned of it, she had always wanted to know what it showed him.

"Yes," he replied. "You asked me what color the day was. You asked me that every day."

The Redguard nodded. "You said it was cerulean. Do you still see things that way? … Does today have a color?"

Martin shrugged. "Today has a thousand colors. I used to see only one. I was glimpsing a world beyond logic and reason, where the essence of creation is shaped by power and feeling. Now, that world is my home."

He paused momentarily.

"Looking back upon that day, it is strange, remembering how limited my view of the world was. But even then, I had understood how much you felt for me. I had many regrets. My very last one was that I left you so soon."

"We had to make sacrifices," Mona said. "I don't blame you for that."

Sacrifices indeed. Martin pondered this for a time. There was always so much death and chaos in the world. It had been especially dire during his mortal lifetime. He remembered watching Kvatch burning, and wondering how Akatosh could have stood by and let it happen.

Now he knew. He had watched many more cities burn since then, and he had done nothing. Because the role of an Aedra was to enable creation, not to exert change. Witnessing death and destruction, and doing nothing to stop it, was something he had been forced to live with.

He loathed it. And he loathed himself for it. The god of Time felt this.

"I suppose you could say I was the final casualty in the Oblivion Crisis," Martin said, eventually. "But so many died before me, beginning with the Emperor, my own father. Most of them have passed on through the Dreamsleeve, never again to be seen as they were, even in the afterlife. You and I are both very lucky."

Mona nodded slowly. "Yes, we are. Now it's up to us to do what we can to save the people of Mundus from more bad luck."

Martin twisted around to look directly at her. "Are you sure your powers of prediction aren't working on me? I was thinking about my inability to do so mere seconds ago."

"Wait, really?" The Redguard raised her eyebrows in surprise. "… Huh. I didn't expect that. I honestly didn't." But then she relaxed again, and her expression softened. "I understand. You're not a Daedra like me."

"I suppose you have some great plans for Mundus," Martin muttered.

"I might."

"Well, now I'm a god. Do you need a god?"

Mona cracked up.

Even Martin himself had to smile a little bit. This was his existence now. If he could not make his peace with that, at least he could observe how absurd it all was. At this point, he felt like he had actually been more useful in the world as a priest.

He said, "I assume your plans have to do with the circumstances of your transformation into Jyggalag."

At this, Mona nodded again. "Our friend Iseus did Mundus an immeasurable service in ridding Oblivion of its malevolent Princes. But as I'm sure you've noticed, it's destabilized the Aurbis. And he doesn't have the power now to correct it himself."

"Indeed," Martin muttered. He had indeed been monitoring the Aurbis—and again, doing nothing. He could scarcely believe how weary he was becoming of that. Being beside the one he loved, and watching her prepare for action, made it even worse than before.

"There's going to be a lot of magical irregularity in the world," Mona said. "I'm not sure what all of its forms will be. I've had a hard time seeing past it—which, incidentally, is exactly why Iseus is the only one besides you who can surprise me. His power has drowned out the signs of his path through the web of cause and effect."

"In that case, what are you going to do?"

"Recruit mortal followers, where I can, and when I can. I'll be the first Daedric Prince to make the well-being of Mundus my ultimate mission." She said it with no small amount of pride. And rightfully so—this statement would have been inconceivable mere days ago.

Nevertheless, the essence of the question remained. "Then what are _they_ going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. Whatever it is, it'll no doubt be incredibly difficult, both for them and for myself. I wouldn't take on anything that I found easy. Waste of my time."

Martin sighed. "I'll admit, I'm less than thrilled at cleaning up after Iseus' mess. If nothing else, I would have appreciated some warning in advance."

But Mona countered smoothly, "If you'd received warning, then so would have the Daedra. Then none of this would have happened at all."

"I suppose so."

"And then you wouldn't be talking to me now. I'd still be Sheogorath."

Martin thought that over for a moment. Then he lay back on the snow and put an arm over his face. "Ugh."

Time continued to pass, as it always did. Both of them were silent. Martin had run out of things to say about this matter. All he could think was that he had lost his way.

But then Mona spoke again. "You have mortal followers too, don't you?"

Martin said nothing.

Mona continued.

"When the Oblivion Crisis struck Tamriel, Akatosh didn't personally intervene. He only exerted his will through his followers. Through you. And it was only your sacrifice that let him finally make a personal appearance." She paused for emphasis. "You need to stop thinking like Brother Martin. Think like the one he worshiped. Think like Akatosh. It's your turn to manage your hand in the world."

At first, Martin couldn't help but bristle at this. What had he been doing this whole time, if not thinking from the point of view that had been given to him? But this feeling faded almost instantly. The Aedra Akatosh had never been able to reconcile his mortal desire for intervention with his Aetherial nature. The solution was so incredibly simple, he was aghast at himself for not considering it an option sooner.

This was what had come of his desire to personally step up and make a difference. As a god, it had only hindered him.

And this was what had come of Mona's return to his side. In a span of seconds, she had shown him what two centuries had failed to impart. Now was not the time to intervene—it was time to find mortals to do his work.

He spoke slowly and carefully, choosing his words with deliberate calculation. "My observation so far is that the irregularities within Mundus are focused in the province of Skyrim. I assume that this is because Iseus began his efforts there. Now… I have a number of centers of worship across Tamriel. But the majority of them are either politically opposed to Skyrim, preoccupied with their own pressing affairs, or both. And within Skyrim, I have no functioning temple dedicated to my name at all."

"You must have someone," Mona said gently. "You're the most ubiquitously worshiped god in the world. Everyone in every era has bowed to you. Who's available now?"

"I don't…" His words trailed off with his thoughts. "… I suppose there is one. But it would be strange to bring him into play now. He has committed himself to eternal guardianship of his nexus of worship, in my name. And he doesn't belong in Skyrim anymore."

"Who?"

"A Falmer, black in soul, by the name of Knight-Paladin Gelebor. He has guarded the Chantry of Auri-El for millennia." Martin paused. "I don't suppose you think I should try to bring him out of his seclusion for this?"

Mona shrugged. "I don't see why not. Just show him what's been going on in the Aurbis lately. That'll do it, right? He can handle himself from there."

This, as it happened, was within Akatosh's power. Providing spiritual visions was a power he exercised infrequently, since it did require great effort, and seldom bore any prophetic value. But to visit the mind of one who had spent his entire life meditating on spiritual matters was little challenge at all. It fell well within his purview as an Aedra.

But this led him to another question. This time, he had no answer in mind.

"How do we know his journey will be fruitful, and not come upon some swift and violent end, or else go simply nowhere? He will not be welcome in Nord-dominated Skyrim."

The Redguard closed her eyes. Time passed.

When she opened them again, it was with renewed purpose. "If you time it correctly, you should be able to cause him to cross paths with some of Iseus' mortal associates. I'll let you know when. He'll be able to help them greatly in completing their task."

"And what is their task?"

"Ending this crisis before it begins."

Then it was settled. Akatosh would see his will exerted upon Mundus once again, but not by his own hand. It would happen through the agents that served his cause—and even a mere one mortal could make all the difference. That, Martin knew for a fact.

The Aedra was content with this. Perhaps this would be the shape of his world to come.

Martin said, "We're about to make a new mark on history. How are we going to be remembered? The two eternal lovers, whose love for each other and all of Tamriel carried them all the way into godhood? Or the two fated heroes, who ended up at the thrones of Oblivion and Aetherius, only to find themselves missing the one thing they needed most—whereupon they used all their power to find another again? … Or perhaps something closer to the truth?"

Mona shook her head slowly. "Tamriel doesn't know that Jyggalag bears the voice of Mona. And Tamriel doesn't know that Akatosh bears the voice of Martin. It's only going to remember the effects of what we do for it."

"I suppose you're right," Martin sighed. "No one really remembered us as mortals anyway, did they?"

"I have a statue in Bruma," Mona offered cheerfully.

"I _am_ a statue in the Imperial City."

Mona snorted.

Time passed by. The two of them regarded one another quietly.

Eventually, Martin reached out silently with his nearer hand. Mona took it in her own. It was cool to the touch, in the cold air of this simulacrum. A false detail for the false images around them. But it was firm of grip, yet delicate all at once—just as he remembered from long ago. It was undoubtedly hers.

They watched the stars above them. The sun had set, and now a green aurora made its slow twisting dance over the sky. These were the stars of Aetherius. Martin recognized them all. They were his home.

After some while, he said, "I can't believe this is truly happening. I thought we would have to spend the rest of all Time apart from each other. What did we do to let this happen?"

"Nothing," Mona shrugged beside him. "A very heroic mortal stepped in and changed our future. It shouldn't seem that foreign to you. We both devoted our lives to saving the world. It's only fitting that someone else should step in to save us."

Martin thought on this. His first thought, as always, was to repay this perceived debt. But he knew exactly how his mortal savior would want him to do it. "Mmm. We have a great deal of work ahead of us, don't we?"

"I expect we have a great deal of joy ahead of us," she replied warmly. "The work is just an extra bit of excitement."

"Is that Mona talking, or Jyggalag?"

The Redguard woman, the Daedric Prince of Order, chuckled under her breath. "Is that Martin asking, or Akatosh?"

Perhaps it didn't matter.

 **Oh, and by the way, countess z—happy upcoming birthday.**


End file.
